


The Land of Fire

by iamnotelegant



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnotelegant/pseuds/iamnotelegant
Summary: The world burns around him. The bright, eerie glow of another breach born from the scar left behind from the first is more massive and looming, more threatening to swallow this world whole.





	The Land of Fire

 

The world burns around him. The bright, eerie glow of another breach born from the scar left behind from the first is more massive and looming, more threatening to swallow this world whole. The earth is in shambles, rising towards the heavens, the veil separating two realities creating fissures in the sky; sharp, luminescent lines spreading like cracks on a mirror.  
  
He can feel the magic on his skin—similar to the times when Dorian would throw a magical barrier over him—the buzz electric against his flesh, making his long hair move in a faux wind.

The fade is leaking, pouring into the world, finally having an outlet after eons of being refuted; the air burning with veilfire, blood, and ash. Cvareh drags it into his lungs, tasting its toxicity, wincing at the ache in his ribs—he must’ve cracked two of them, maybe three—and picks himself up from his knees.  
  
Cvareh and his group were gaining ground against a group of Fen’Harel agents—some of them dalish, which snags something deep inside him—growing closer to the eluvian that stood at the top of a crumbling staircase, leading into the crossroads. That was their best chance to reach the Dread Wolf, to put a stop to his further devastation of this world.  
  
They easily made quick work of the Dread Wolf’s agents, their skills honed from long fought battles, slaughtering the elves’. But at the end of their battle there was one who laid on the ground, spitting out blood while clutching at his torso. One of the chevaliers’ that volunteered to go with them now marches towards him, gripping fistfuls of the elves’ hair, taking out a knife—their intentions clear—until Cvareh shouts "wait!" and the chevalier stops.  
  
Cvareh comes to a stand before the young dalish warrior, staring into enraged eyes, his face pale and unmarked. They snap their teeth at him, snarling “you would do this to our people? You would stop the return of the elves?”  
  
Cvareh does not wince. “This is not the way, da’len. Fen’harel ma ghilana” _—the Dread Wolf leads you astray—_ “you are unaware of what dangers that will befall our people with the return of the Evanuris.”  
  
“Ma banal las halamshir var vhen” _—you do not further our people—“Inquisitor!”_ The young elf spits, disdain pouring into his shemlen-given title.  
  
Cvareh frowns, and tries to reason with the young elf, “da’len, _please. Ar’din nuvenin na’din,”—child, please. I don’t want to kill you._  
  
But the young elf does not relent, does not surrender, only sneers at him and snarls like a wild animal, frantic. That is when Cvareh hesitates, staring into the eyes of one of his own people, into the unrelenting gaze of the young warrior — and cannot help but feel like crumbling, to fall to his knees and shout _‘why!!?’_ because he never wanted this — never wanted to fight his own kin. All he wanted was for them to stand tall, proud of their heritage — but not like this, no, _never_ like this.  
  
_I failed them._  
  
Cvareh opens his mouth to respond when suddenly he hears Alistair’s sharp cry behind him. He whips his head around in time to see him fall, Alistair’s hand reaching out towards the Hero of Ferelden, an arrow piercing deep into his chest.

He is about to advance towards the grey warden when he smells the familiar sharpness of magic in the air, more prominent than the fade pouring in from the splitting veil, sharp and lethal; he can feel the attack advancing in on him. Cvareh tenses up, expecting the elemental shock of pain when suddenly he feels the warmth of Dorian’s barrier being thrown over him, deflecting it.  
  
“Ma halani!” _(Help me!),_ he hears the young dalish cry, turning his head in time to see a group of Fen’Harel agents appearing out of thin air, their armor gleaming golden and silver, like starfire. One of them is pulling the young warrior to safety, shouting in lyrical, ancient elven dialect at the others.  
  
Ancient elves’, Cvareh assumes, and moves into a defensive stance, readying for the battle that is about to begin.  
  
The elves’ are quick and nimble on their feet, packing more experience than their earlier group; trading blow for blow. At one point Varric and Dorian are backed into a corner, an ancient warrior standing before them with their hammer raised high. Cvareh barely gets there in time to deflect it, the blow rattling his bones as he shoves the elf back with all the strength he has, hissing through his teeth from the pain bracketing his torso.  
  
The elf flies back, losing their balance while Fenris comes up behind them, his sword gleaming bright with encased-lyrium as he pierces his sword through their ribs; the sound of their flesh ripping open echoing in Cvareh’s ears.  
  
The ancient elf drops and Cvareh is in the middle of regaining his breath when he feels something piercing into his side, a razor-sharp pain tearing into him, pushing against cracked bones and tearing through taut muscle. He lets out a sharp cry as his body gives out, his sword cluttering to the ground beside him.  
  
"Cvareh!" he hears Cassandra shout as he struggles to keep himself from full-on collapsing to the ground, his breathing becoming harsh and barely there in his lungs; he wonders if his lungs have been punctured, but no, he hasn't coughed up blood. Not yet, at least.

He looks down at himself and sees an arrow embedded deep into his side.

_Fenedhis._

  
Cvareh listens to the sounds of fighting going on around him as he struggles through the blaring plain, feeling too vulnerable, too open for another attack. Gnashing his teeth, he pushes himself to his knees and takes in his surroundings; spotting Varric and Dorian defending him from a pair of elven shadows.

  
"You alright there, Cvareh?" shouts Dorian in the middle of slamming his staff down, a shot of ice spewing forth and encasing one of the nimble elves; Fenris swinging his sword down in a shattering blow as Lyna let’s loose an arrow that strikes into the eyes of another elf who was aiming to attack Fenris from behind.

  
"Never better," he groans.  
  
"Hang in there! We will wrap this up as quickly as we can!"  
  
But Cvareh grabs his sword, uses it to push himself to his feet, and grits his teeth against the pain; grabbing the arrow embedded into his side and snapping it in half.

He sucks in a breath, ignores the stinging ache, and gathers himself. Then quickly rejoins the others, adrenaline once again shooting through his veins— _I will not die here, not when I’m so close_ — and helps them defeat the rest of their opponents.  
  
The remaining agents fall after that.

Moments later, they are struggling to catch their breaths, Cvareh's pain now a dull ache in his side; no doubt due to the epinephrine still coursing through his veins. Beside him Cassandra is using her sword to steady herself, her shield laying beside her, covered in blood that percolates with steam. She peers up at him; there is a new wound slashed across her face, expanding the length from her jaw up to the side of her forehead. She gives him a stern nod, one he returns, and turns to face the rest of his companions.  
  
Dorian and Lyna are hovering over Alistair, the glow of Dorian’s healing magic flowing into the wound bleeding from his chest. Alistair is not conscious; his face alarmingly pale. Lyna is beside him, carefully watching Dorian as he attempts to heal the fallen grey warden, but then suddenly, Dorian's magic stops and he looks at her. He gives a shake of his head, and suddenly, Lyna's shoulders are shaking; her face contorting in anguish as her petite figure collapses over Alistair, clutching tightly.  
  
Cvareh closes his eyes, fists tightening.  
  
Everyone is quiet, he can feel Cassandra's pity from where she stands beside him still; Varric and Fenris standing further away, looking on with haunted eyes. Cvareh remembers Hawke then—Hawke and her sly smile and quick wit, making comments about Andraste's bosom in the fade. Hawke and her bravery, offering to sacrifice herself so they can have a chance to live on, to defeat Corypheous and stop the world from being torn asunder.

And now here they are, several years later, Hawke long dead and Alistair on his way to meet his Maker; it almost feels like a waste.

Cassandra bends down, blood dripping from her wound as she snags her blood-encrusted shield from the ground. That movement brings Cvareh back into the present, quickly remembering what they are here for.  
  
He walks over to Lyna, abit unsure, but nonetheless consoling. “Ir abelas, lethallin.”  
  
The famed warden of legend doesn’t respond, still clutching tightly to the still body of her fellow grey warden. Her body shaking with her sobs; Cvareh can tell she is trying her best to keep silent, but the sound of her sorrow is deafening. It touches something similar inside him, something that longs to scream its agony.  
  
He gives her a moment, allows the warden her pain, before laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Ir abelas. Mala suledin nadas.” He remembers Wisdom offering Solas the same words all those years ago, in a time that felt, ironically, much lighter than the present. _Now you must endure._ It is what everyone must do now, what they all _can_ do after suffering so much loss, so much grief and despair.

This war will taking everything from us, Cvareh thinks, somewhere deep within him, the thought rings true.

  
“I do not wish to come across as insensitive, lethallin, but we must go before we are delayed any further. The end of the world will not wait.”  
  
His words seem to get through to the warden as her sobs begin to quiet. He watches her caress Alistair’s face, whispers something under her breath, and kisses his lips one final time before rising to her feet. She looks at him, visibly hardening herself, and gives him a single nod.

  
“And what of the arrow sticking out of you?” Dorian asks from the side, leaning on his staff, his face grim and exhausted.

  
“I am fine—“  
  
“You most certainly are not,” Cassandra cuts in. “I can see your face paling.”

  
Cvareh looks over at her, meets her stony gaze head on. There are lines cutting into her features now, hints of grey in her dark, onyx hair that now sits below her ears. Where has the time gone? He wonders. Not too long ago they were cutting down demons together, hunting down Venatori and Red Templars alike. Now she is Lord Seeker, a title that bears weight on her shoulders no less than her years as the Right Hand of the Divine.

“And you are no worse for wear either, my friend.”  
  
Cassandra’s face softens and she steps closer, laying a comforting hand on his arm. “You cannot go on like this, Cvareh. You _must_ have Dorian heal you," she pleads, her nevarran accent always heaviest when soft and kind.  
  
“ _Dorian_ is barely standing. Plus, there is no time—“  
  
“Then I will make time!” she refutes, fixing him with another hard glare. “If I have to hold you down myself, then so be it! I will not have my friend walking the line of death when we finally face the Dread Wolf!"  
  
What she says sound reasonable, and of course, if Cvareh were to stumble into the final battle, weak and pale-faced… well, he couldn’t have that. Especially after long months of planning, of waiting for the wind to blow in the direction of the ancient elven God; leaving hints of what plan he would be devising next, where he would go.

If only they had made it in time for _this_ , however.

Cvareh looks up, observes the veil; a beacon of whipping green light amidst the darkened sky, shouts of thunder cracking like whips though the air.

Cvareh comes to a decision then, giving Cassandra a brief nod. “Quickly, then.”

He will need all his strength.  
  
They sit him down and Cassandra stuffs a dagger into his mouth, doing her best not to worsen the damage, she rips the arrow from his flesh. He doesn’t scream and soon feels the familiar warmth of Dorian’s magic stitching his flesh back together. There is a fresh pink scar left behind, another one added to the various scars littering his bod, then Cvareh is back on his feet; the ache in his bones less, the coldness in his lungs less of a sting and more of a relief.  
  
He looks at Cassandra, is about to make a comment about the wound dripping on her face when he feels her harden her stare, an unspoken thing relaying between them. Cvareh nods, accepts, and continues their advance towards the eluvian.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where I am going with this, I sorta just slapped on some angsty music and went with the flow. Might or might not build on this, depends on the sort of response this will receive. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome! They make me feel good inside! Especially with constructive criticism!


End file.
